


Blood Feud

by Eireann



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Gen, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 10:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: Ragnar is aboard Dragon-Fire, in pursuit of Uhtred who is a slave aboard a trader's vessel.  There is a hiatus in the chase, but it affords him an unexpected opportunity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Last Kingdom is copyrighted to Carnival Film and Television. No infringement is intended and no money made.
> 
> 1\. Please note the presence of the Archive Warnings. These are advisory, because I don't do really 'graphic' stuff, but readers who are offended by these topics should take note before reading.
> 
> 2\. The rituals described herein are taken from the account of a 10th Century Muslim writer named Ibn ad Fadlam.
> 
> 3\. This story should be regarded as a 'Missing Scene' from the series. It was never mentioned ... but it 'might' have happened!
> 
> This is my first foray into this genre, so fingers crossed!

“Lost him again!  Hel take that lucky bastard Sverri!”

Ragnar could have pounded his fists on the gunwale with frustration as their elusive quarry slipped away yet again.  Half a year spent chasing the cunning trader Sverri Ravnson up and down the coasts of Frisia, Denmark, Frankia and Britain, and sometimes drawing close enough to catch the reek of the wretched slaves aboard his ship, and still the capture eluded him.

Was Uhtred still aboard?  Was he even still alive?

Until _Dragon-Fire_ managed to overhaul _Trader_ , those questions were destined to remain without an answer.  But the answer, when it finally came – and Ragnar had an iron determination that sooner or later it _would_ come – would determine exactly how long Ravnson spent screaming before he was at last allowed to die.

“Lord Uhtred is not dead, Lord,” said Steapa, shading his eyes to stare after the vanishing _Trader._ “I feel  it – in here – that he is still alive.”  He touched a fist to his massive chest, and then had the grace to look slightly embarrassed by this unwonted outburst of sentimentality.

“You’re a fool to trust in feelings, and I’m a bigger fool to believe you,” growled Ragnar.  “I’m going to have a drink.”

There was rain coming.  They needed clear weather to keep their quarry in view, and the bastard must be flogging the backs off his slaves to keep up this pace.  A few showers wouldn’t matter, but prolonged rain – well, the sky wasn’t looking good, and the wind was gusting erratically; a man far less attuned to the moods of the sea than Ragnar would have known that the omens were poor for the hunters, good for the hunted.  He muttered a half-hearted prayer to Ægir, god of the sea, and went looking for the ale-barrel, in a thoroughly foul mood.

*               *               *

The omens were correct.  After a few squalls came and went, Rán of the Storms threw off her lord husband’s restraining hand, and foul weather took the North Sea.  _Trader_ disappeared into the murk and the long, white-ribboned swells, and when at long last the following dawn saw the clouds clearing towards the north, the sea was empty from horizon to horizon.

Ragnar swore so long and with such creativity that even the Danes among his crew looked their admiration.

They had been at sea for some time, and their stores were running low.  If they had managed to catch their quarry that would not have mattered, because they would have killed Ravnson’s crew and plundered his ship, and however poorly the bastard fed his slaves, he and his crew undoubtedly did not sleep thirsty or hungry o’nights.  But _Trader_ had escaped, and the bales and barrels secured along _Dragon-Fire_ ’s keel and in her stern were growing lighter.  If men were to row and fight, they had to be fed.

Besides, after the exhausting pursuit, they were all tired.  Everyone had taken a turn at the oars, striving to close the distance between them and the ship they pursued, but the Spinners had decreed that yet again their efforts were to be in vain.  It would probably be wise to head for land, where they could revictual and carry out any minor repairs that might be needed.  Maybe there might even be someone in one of the local villages who had knowledge of where Ravnson’s home village might be, though vague rumour so far suggested it was ‘somewhere in Denmark’.

Concluding with a graphic description of the number of times and unusual ways in which he would hump Sverri’s woman before her husband’s eyes if he ever laid hands on her, Ragnar finally growled the order to turn eastwards. 


	2. Chapter 2

Later that afternoon the coast of northern Frisia appeared on the horizon.  The sun sparkled on the waves, the mild southerly wind filled the sail, and white foam sprang where the bow parted the blue water.  Even a few dolphins (always regarded as a lucky omen) came hurrying to play on the bow-wave for a while. 

None of this, however, could lift Ragnar’s mood.  He prowled around the ship, pausing only to glare astern as though hoping by some miracle to spy _Trader_ following them.  His crew, accustomed to his moods and understanding the reason for them, simply stayed out of his way.  Even Steapa retreated to the steering oar.

Today, anyone who crossed Ragnar Ragnarson had better be either very good with a sword or very eager to die.

*               *               *

It seemed that having abandoned them to his wife’s mercies the previous day, Ægir was minded to make amends.  The ship ran smoothly into a broad inlet where a small hamlet was sited.  The channel was deep enough in the middle for seagoing ships, and the settlement, although small, looked prosperous.

“Hi!  You!  Broga!” Ragnar summoned one of his Saxon crew with a shout.  “Where is this shitty little pig’s fart of a place, and who rules here?”

The wizened little warrior had been born in Frisia and fished the coasts with his father until he contrived to run away to Alfred and Wessex.  Now he spat over the gunwale.  “Gulbrand Helgeson,” he growled.  “Thieving, treacherous little cunt.  May he get fifty sorts of the pox up his arsehole and shit turds full of thistles!”

This was one of the very few topics upon which Ragnar’s earlier Homeric tirade had not touched.  His captain’s glittering eye took on a faintly amused gleam.  “You know him?”

“Calls himself ‘king’ hereabouts.” Broga made an extremely rude gesture in the direction of the hamlet towards whose jetties _Dragon-Fire_ was carefully nosing.  “Takes half of everything all the villagers produce and hires mercenaries to bully decent fisher-folk.”  He spat again.  “Gives himself airs because he’s sister-son to jarl Kjartan of Northumbria.”

The amusement vanished in a deluge of icy fury.  Ragnar had been leaning idly against the inside of the high stern of the ship, but thrust off from it as though it had suddenly become red-hot.  “ _Kjartan!_ ” he snarled.  “His sister’s son rules here?”

“Yes, lord.”  Broga was at first startled, then clearly frightened by his leader’s unexpectedly violent response.  “I meant no disrespect–”

“Lord Ragnar has a blood-feud against jarl Kjartan,” rumbled Steapa, who was still at the steering-oar.  “The jarl murdered his father and mother, and kidnapped his sister.”

Some of the colour returned to the Saxon’s face, which had paled, and he essayed a nervous smile.  He understood enough of Danish ways to know that blood-feud encompassed all members of the enemy’s family, and that Ragnar, balked of boarding the _Trader_ , would like nothing better than to find compensation in dealing out death to one of Kjartan’s kin.

“You may be too late, lord.” Keen-sighted Njall, who had been staring fixedly at the handsome ship that had been beached just beyond the furthest jetty, touched his captain’s arm.  “I think Lord Helgeson has already journeyed to Niflheim.”

“ _What?_ ” Ragnar strode to the prow and glared at the ship. 

All ships were beached from time to time to have their hulls scoured and any leaks mended, and he had assumed that this one was having some such necessary maintenance carried out.  As _Dragon-Fire_ moved closer, however, it could be seen that the other vessel was heaped with fine furs and plate.  Just forward of the central mast there was a tent, in which at a guess the mortal remains of ‘King’ Gulbrand Helgeson were waiting to go to his ancestors in a style befitting his title.  If further proof were needed, logs and kindling were stacked all around the base of the ship, ready for lighting when the ceremonies were concluded.

“He dares call himself a king?  He’s the whelp of a maggoty, purblind dog on a syphilitic rat!” The Dane’s fists clenched.  “We’ll see who’s a king!”

The arrival of _Dragon-Fire_ had not, of course, gone unnoticed.  However, the ship had its dragon head unstepped from the prow, and could therefore be that of a trader.  The inhabitants of the village were gathered for the festivities, and quite a few heads turned to watch as the new arrival coasted gently up to the half-rotted planks of the jetty.  Helgeson had plainly not stinted himself as regards funeral possessions, but it seemed that none of his wealth had been expended on the upkeep of the village; beauty would not have been expected, but a sound landing stage was a practicality.

By this time, Ragnar had mastered his temper, laid his plans and given out his orders.  Though the village was small and the crowd numbered less than a hundred, at a guess, there would be a good number of the king’s mercenaries present.  They would certainly be watching _Dragon-Fire_ very warily – a man such as the one Broga described would have enemies.  Probably a considerable number of them.

Sure enough, twenty or so men detached themselves from the crowd and walked towards the jetty.  Almost all of them were wearing armour, though not of particularly good quality, and most of them were armed.  None were young; most were scarred.  Ragnar knew experience when it stared at him.  Moreover, there were probably a number of others ready to rush in if reinforcements should be required; too threatening a welcome would put off visitors who could be bringing the village goods for trade, but they would watch developments closely.

Immediate and overt hostility would achieve nothing bar an ugly skirmish in which the new arrivals would be badly outnumbered and almost certainly defeated.  However much he might deplore the necessity, guile would have to be used – at least to begin with.

“We come on a momentous day!” he called, spreading his arms wide with a nod to the pyre-ship.  “I am Maarku of Haithabu, come to trade with our Frisian cousins.”  He gestured expansively to the empty water-barrels secured towards the rear of _Dragon-Fire._ “I happen to have aboard twenty barrels of the finest spirit out of Írland, and what could be more suitable for the journey of a great king?” 

Some of the tension went out of the faces opposite him.  It was an ancient tradition that a king went to the fire with alcoholic liquor, and if he was indeed a trader bringing fine spirit, his arrival could hardly have been more fortuitous.

“I am prepared to be reasonable as regards price,” Ragnar went on unctuously.  “In honour of the great king... but you will understand, a man must live.”

“I am sure we will be able to reach an accommodation,” replied the man who seemed to be in charge, taking his hand from his belt, where it had been resting close to his sword-hilt.  He gave a smile that he probably imagined was ingratiating, revealing a number of broken, rotted teeth.  “You will perhaps favour us with a sample of this spirit, so that we may judge its quality for ourselves before we decide to buy.”

“What warrior worth the name would buy a horse he has not ridden, or a drink he has not tasted?”

Ragnar sauntered back to the water barrels, leaned over and pretended to dip a cupful.  He strolled with it back to the prow, where the mercenaries on the jetty had crowded closer in the anticipation of sampling the legendary drink that the men of Írland called _uisce beatha._

But at the last instant, instead of handing it over he flung the contents – his own hot urine – in the face of the foremost.  Half a second later, his knife had opened the man’s throat, and the crew behind him had drawn their swords and poured over the ship’s side onto the jetty.

The trick gave them a small advantage of surprise, and they made the most of it.  The mercenaries fought desperately, but with Helgeson dead without issue their employment was now uncertain.  Few were willing to die to defend a village whose next king might have no further use for them, and more than half of those who had remained among the villagers did not even draw their swords.

The attack had come so quickly that a number of the villagers hardly knew what was happening at first.  Panic seized them when they realised it, but Ragnar was not an indiscriminate killer.  He cleaned his bloody sword, sheathed it and walked towards them, his hands spread and his motley band of Danish and Saxon warriors behind him, intimidating and clearly ruthless.  “I have no quarrel with the people of this village if they seek none with me!” he cried, loudly enough for all to hear.  “My quarrel is with one man only, the man on that pyre-ship, and anyone who tries to stop me will die!”

Gulbrand Helgeson had not been the sort of lord who creates devoted followers.  He had been cowardly and, worse, ungenerous to his warriors, who had mostly deserted him to find lords more worth their loyalty.  His mercenaries supported him because he paid them (if irregularly), the villagers because they were terrified of him.  The few who had actually liked him had died on the jetty.  None were willing to fight to protect his body now.

Ragnar pushed his way through the crowd.  Most of the men of the village were carrying swords and shields, but this was because they were required during the last part of the ceremony, not because they intended to do any fighting.  Only a reckless few let their hands drift even close to the hilt, and those fools a hard stare from the brutal-looking Steapa soon convinced that acquiescence was the less fatal option.

There were six men on the deck of the ship.  They looked hard types and were undoubtedly mercenaries too; at a guess, some of the smaller, choicer grave goods had surreptitiously found their way into the recesses of their clothing already.

A small cluster of women were standing by the gangway.  A similarity of feature proclaimed that four of the six were daughters of the fifth, an old harridan who glared balefully at Ragnar as he approached.  The sixth was a thrall girl, a skinny thing wearing little but a few pieces of jewellery.  Her thighs were smeared with blood and semen, and she swayed where she stood; as part of the ritual, she had been humped by every man in the village.  The fact that she had been liberally plied with alcohol and was almost delirious with her own unwonted self-importance probably helped to block out the pain, and it was unlikely that she had been warned what awaited her next.

The burial ritual demanded that after she had given away her jewellery to these women  who had escorted her here, she would be taken on board ship and plied with more alcohol.  Then she would be dragged into the tent where the king’s body lay.  There she would be raped by the six waiting men, while the warriors outside beat their swords on their shields to drown the sound of her screams.

Then, after they were done, she would be held powerless by the six of them while the old harridan plunged a knife between her ribs to finally put an end to her suffering.  Only then would fire be set to the ship, so that she might take the life force of the village to the king in the afterworld.

“Release her,” ordered Ragnar, pointing at the drunken thrall girl, who understood only that she was being deprived of her star status and began screaming abuse at him.

The four girls seemed for one moment to be on the verge of attacking him – doubtless they were furious at being deprived of the jewellery that was loaned to the thrall for the occasion, and that would be their reward for services rendered in guarding her up till this point.  But luckily for them, sense prevailed, and they drew back sullenly.

The harridan was less ready to relinquish her role.  She had the sacrificial knife ready, pushed through her belt, and suddenly she drew it and thrust it savagely at Ragnar.  Unluckily for her, however, she had no warrior training and her enemy had the reactions of a cat.  He struck her face with the flat of his sword-blade, but blood still burst from it as she spun away and fell headlong.

He grabbed the thrall girl, who was still screaming at him and lashing out with her fists, and thrust her at Steapa, who picked her up as though she had been a child, carried her to the river and dropped her in.  It was not deep at that particular point, but it was undoubtedly very cold.  The shock of it cut off her tirade like a knife, and she wallowed there, gasping and sobbing.

With his crew guarding the gangway, Ragnar strode up it.  The six waiting mercenaries eyed him as he came to a halt, one foot on the ship’s deck.

“You can attack me, and at least two of you will die,” he said, smiling genially, his blue eyes bright and hard as sapphires in his head.  “Or you can stand back, and all of you will live.  You can even have the thrall afterwards.  Was Gulbrand Helgeson worth dying for?”

It seemed not.  After a moment’s hesitation, they stepped back and let him walk to the tent unhindered.

Helgeson had been a wealthy man.  The drapes were of fine linen, and the goods he had intended to take with him to the afterlife were of excellent quality.

Ragnar tore down the tent.  Then he picked up the smaller cups, bowls and plates.  He hurled them with all his might, one after another, so they landed among the villagers, who scrambled frantically to grab them.  Coins rained down onto the turf as a fine engraved dish of Celtic silverware sailed through the air, spilling its contents as it went; that one was carefully aimed so that it fell among his own men, and Broga threw up a hand and snatched it for himself, beaming.

The grave goods were systematically stripped and distributed.  The best, naturally, he kept for himself, passing them to his crew to be shared out later. Finally, breathing hard, he laid hand on the linen beneath which the corpse lay, and ripped it off.

According to tradition, the king had been dressed in a fine set of grave clothes.  The tip of a knife began ripping them into shreds.  “A king, are you?” Ragnar snarled as the body tumbled to the floor.  “Your mother’s brother was my father’s shipmaster, and the day is coming when I will cut him into little pieces and feed his corpse to his own dogs!”

Soon Helgeson lay without a single coin or a shred of covering, naked and graceless.  His face, shrunken in death, still bore enough of a resemblance to that of his hated uncle to fill Ragnar with mindless fury.  “Your whoreson cousin has but one eye.  A dog like you does not need two!”

The point of the knife disposed of that particular issue too.

He seized the corpse by one wrist and towed it after him off the ship.  It dragged in the dirt as he stalked to the jetty, leaving behind it a trail of congealed blood at which a couple of the village curs began sniffing with interest.

The landing stage was in poor repair in many places.  At the furthest corner the planking had started to collapse, and one splintered, half-rotten post stood uselessly upright in the mud.

Ragnar seized the body’s corresponding ankle as well and used both to swing it around him in a half-turn, lifting it clear of the planking.  With a crunch of shattering bone Helgeson landed on the post, impaled so hard that the wood burst through his belly and the starving dogs darted in to investigate.  What they found was too wonderful to resist.

Almost at once they started to quarrel.  The smallest grabbed a dangling loop of intestine and tried to make a run with it, with predictable results.  Most villages had more than their share of half-wild dogs, most of whom lived on what they could steal, and the noise soon attracted others.  Over a dozen galloped out from among the huts and began snatching what they could from the unexpected feast, while Ragnar watched with satisfaction and the thrall girl wailed, baulked of her chance of a share in the king’s afterlife.

The mercenaries had not been neglected in the disposal of the spoils.  They were realists, and could have fared worse.  As Ragnar pointed his sword at them and warned them to leave the body where it was till it was eaten or rotted into the river, their leader shrugged and spat before turning away.  At a guess, he did not care enough to disobey.

The villagers had been won over by the distribution of largesse.  The strange Viking had kept the best of the plunder for himself and his crew, but that was only to be expected; his generosity showed he was a lord by nature, unlike the miserly Helgeson whose mortal remains were now affording almost every dog in the village a king’s feast.

It would not have escaped the headman’s attention either that there was no longer any need to burn a fine ship.  The sale of such a vessel would bring someone riches beyond the dreams of avarice.

“You are welcome to eat with us, Lord.” Presumably this was the headman himself, bobbing his head obsequiously as he approached the blond warrior with the intricate tattoo above his brows.  “We are not rich – but what we have...”

“I need supplies for my ship,” growled Ragnar.  “Water, and food, whatever you can spare.  And make haste!”

“But – you will surely stay the night at least, and rest?”

The Dane sighed, turning to stare back at the sea.  It sparkled, innocently blue in the late evening sunlight.

His crew were tired, yes – but with every hour that passed, _Trader_ would be drawing further and further away.

“No,” he said heavily.  “Get me the food and water, and quickly.”

The headman began shouting orders.  The villagers scattered, mostly stunned by developments but obedient enough.  _Dragon Fire_ ’s crew went back to her, taking the treasure, and began passing out the water barrels to be refilled.

The squawks of the thrall girl passed all but unnoticed.  The mercenaries had hauled her out of the river into the mud at its margin and were taking what they had been promised.  At least now she would live afterwards, even if she now had only thraldom to look forward to, and the spite of her fellow thralls for her unrealised dreams.  At a small distance two of the girls hovered, plainly waiting for the opportunity to dive in and retrieve the jewellery; presumably the two others had helped their mother away for tending.

Doubtless word of the desecration of his nephew’s body would eventually cross the North Sea and find its way to the ear of Kjartan the Cruel, and if the gods were kind it would eat at the man’s rotten soul like the pox.

Ragnar went on staring out to sea.  Robbing Helgeson of the king’s burial he had not deserved was something, but it was not enough.  Not nearly enough.  Somewhere out there was Northumbria, and his vengeance.  And he would take that vengeance one day, or die in the attempt.  His whole honour as a warrior depended on it.

But before that could happen, he had a duty to perform.  Somewhere out there on the cold waters of the North Sea, Uhtred his foster-brother – if he still lived – was yet a slave, bound to the oar of a galley.  They might not be brothers in blood, but they were brothers in spirit, and loved one another deeply.  And until _Trader_ was taken and the worst and best known, there could be no rest for Ragnar Ragnarson.

 

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> All reviews are gratefully received and much appreciated!


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